


Religious Iconography

by thatclutzsarahh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:00:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3610980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small ficlet of Mycroft's sudden deep devotion to his beloved other half.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Religious Iconography

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sabrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrina/gifts).



Mycroft is not a religious man.

He was when he was a child, till about fourteen years of age, but that all stopped when the Bishop of the Catholic Church he regularly attended was stripped of his title and found guilty of molestation. His mother was smart enough to pull her children out of there, a choice she did not take lightly.

And so he’d gone a long time without spilling the tongues of hymns and praises for a being he’s long since given up on. He’d stopped his worship of something not there many many years ago. 

But by God he will spend a thousand centuries worshipping her. 

To him, she is the one thing that can burn away the long hours of sin that ensnare his soul. She is the solid gold statue that the ancient Greek’s carved and worshipped. For Mycroft she indescribable, made up of every single metaphor and horrible hallmark greeting card he can find and then some-the sun and the moon and every star he’s never seen glitters in the way she entangles herself in silk sheets, a thick leg wrapped tightly around the fabric, constricting it the way only medusa could stone her men.

He would not mind being a statue for her. If she wanted, he would lay down so that she can press those sharp heels into his heart, palpate it till tender. He would let her carve out his chest and remove the offending structure-her fingertips are gaia, one touch from her and his skin sprouts flowers, she turns him to spring when he feels permanently winterized. Mycroft is so foolishly hers she could ruin him and the man would thank her for letting him run his tongue over those soft red lips. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had not expected such intensity from the woman whose spine is frigid and cold. It was innocent at first-a gesture of kindness, she struggled and he helped. But one touch of those silk stockings and he was captured, the web that ensnared him with a single brush. He’d been the cause of her fractured rib-the impossibility of removing her stockings the farthest excuse on his mind as he rolled down the silk. Was her skin softer than this? Heaven, or so close-a softness unreal, exotic, exciting. 

Everyday is Sunday when he is with her, for the long hours of her morning worship do not go without routine. A man of prestige, of honor, he duties himself to this constant new religion of his-the religion of Anthea, a constant dog-like worship for her and her existence. With her he feels like a man longing for a drink, no matter how long his lips rest on her hips, her stomach, her shoulders, collarbones…. He would spend all day in the temple of her lips if her could, but her sharp tongue and dangerous movements tell him she only his for a few hours. 

But is she his at all?

Mycroft is no fool. His deep, bone shaking devotion to her is long lasting, but her tolerance of him could end at any moment. He imagines her a siren, or medusa with her prey-he would gladly turn to stone the moment she willed it, so say the woman, he would eagerly drown in her siren song when she so sings it. And were he not still breathing air he might think it is already too late for his foolish humanity, he built her a shrine in her life and he is hopelessly stuck on his knees, grovelling his devotion daily. And when he thinks is praise can go no further there she is to pick him from his knees, to cover him with her warmth, welcome him into her garden body. Her veins flow with the lively replenishment of life and humanity. Within her is a small church, a place for Mycroft only, hidden between the valley and river of her heart, blossoming in romance and rosy skin, flushed from his constant worship.

And when the night falls and he slips his eyes shut, he lays with her, his goddess, the icon he would have never found to so desperately worship.


End file.
